


I knew you before we met (and I don't even know you yet)

by SunBug



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Driver Eddie Kaspbrak, Famous Richie Tozier, Fluff, Kinda, M/M, Rated T for Trashmouth, Sharing a Bed, Soulmate AU, craft store shenanigans, richie tozier listens to the cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunBug/pseuds/SunBug
Summary: Eddie stops at the mirror near his front door and straightens his tie. He had carefully combed his hair, but couldn’t do much for the dark circles under his eyes. Five weeks. He can deal with this for the next five weeks.He grabs his keys and the list of carefully written directions he had plotted out the night before. A diagrammed route from his car park to the hotel Richie Tozier is staying in, to the film set in Long Island.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77
Collections: Writers Revolution Secret Santa 2020





	I knew you before we met (and I don't even know you yet)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MultiFandomMads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MultiFandomMads/gifts).



> heyo, this is a gift for a discord secret santa! its also the first completed fic ive ever posted (wowza) 
> 
> happy (very late) holidays mads, I hope you like it! love you lots!!
> 
> the titles from all ive ever known in hadestown

Eddie Kaspbrak’s alarm clock rips him awake at the ass crack of dawn. He jolts, groaning as he throws his arm across his bed and slams the snooze button, then rolls over again, desperately trying to remember the dream that's quickly escaping him. It was summer, warm and balmy, but the picture in his head quickly shifts into a melting impression of what it was when he was asleep. _First day, don’t be fucking late_ , he thinks, and then he forgets about the dream all together.

Why the fuck did he take this job? This isn't a natural way to wake up, he read that somewhere in school once. It's not good for you to be violently woken up like this, _healthy_ people wake up on their own.

He blinks blearily at the bright red light on his bedside table. _4:32_ it shines brightly, cheerfully, likes it's not the worst number Eddie’s ever seen. 

He sighs. He needs this job, he reminds himself, and throws off his blankets. _God, it’s fucking cold_. He swipes the heel of his hand from his cheekbone to his eye as he stumbles to the bathroom. 

The job is only five weeks, he reminds his reflection in the mirror. 

And it pays, like, decently well, he thinks as he carefully measures coffee grounds into the pot. 

But fuck is it cold this early in the morning. Maybe he should just call in sick, head back to bed, and then wake up on his own in a few more hours. It’s better for his body, better for his circadian rhythms or whatever the fuck they are. 

He sips his coffee, heading back to his room and pulls out the suit he hung in his closet the night before. 

Eddie stops at the mirror near his front door and straightens his tie. He had carefully combed his hair, but couldn’t do much for the dark circles under his eyes. Five weeks. He can deal with this for the next five weeks. 

He grabs his keys and the list of carefully written directions he had plotted out the night before. A diagrammed route from his car park to the hotel Richie Tozier is staying in, to the film set in Long Island. 

New York City is never quiet, but it gets somewhere close at five in the morning. It’s dark and the wind bites slightly at his cheeks, but there aren’t many people around. Eddie revels in his clear pathway, looking up at the buildings, taking in their beauty and wonder like a goddamn tourist. 

The drive isn’t so bad either. He had been dreading driving down to Times Square, but there aren’t many other cars or pedestrians at this hour. The lights from the buildings and the billboards light up the streets in front of him, almost reflecting on the pavement. It’s endearing in its opposition to what it's like in the day. 

Huh. What had he been making such a fuss about? It’s kind of nice to enjoy a quiet, New York morning. 

He pulls up to a big building on 92nd and parks the car. He’s a little early, Richie Tozier is supposed to meet him here in seven minutes. 

Eddie rests his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. 

He’s not sure what to expect really. He’s met a few actors with this driving job, but it's usually just for an hour or two, a quick drive from the airport to wherever they're staying. He’s never worked a job where he’s with the same person for a few hours _everyday._

Hopefully Richie isn’t an asshole or like a disgusting slob or something. He’s definitely not famous enough to be a dick, and Eddie really doesn’t want to clean his car more than once a week.

He opens one eye and squints at the clock on the dashboard. Richie’s two minutes late. Eddie shakes his head, closing his eyes again. 

It’s a beautiful morning. The guy’s probably just running behind schedule, no reason to ruin his own morning by getting pissed off. Even if it’s totally irresponsible and kind of rude. He’s not angry.

A knock on the window makes Eddie jolt in his seat. A dark figure stands on the curb outside, and waves. Eddie rolls down the window, revealing a mop of curly hair under a hood, glasses perched on a long, slanted nose, and a wide, toothy grin. 

An odd knot forms below Eddie’s ribs. Something about him looks vaguely familiar, the way he looks back at Eddie - like he’s seen that look stretched over that freckled face before. 

The weirdest feeling washes over Eddie, an eclectic kind of calm, like every atom in his body is glowing and buzzing, but he’s completely at peace. It’s gone before he fully registers it, leaving him gaping awkwardly and thinking _I know you._

Eddie must have seen him in a movie or something. 

“‘Ello Govna’.” the man says in a throaty drawl. “Who ya here for?” 

Well, that’s less familiar. He didn’t know Richie had an accent. It sounds vaguely British, but not quite, he can’t entirely place it. 

“Richie Tozier?” He asks, and the man’s face splits into a wider smile.

“Aight, cool,” he says and disappears from Eddie’s window, opens the back door and slides into the car, scooching until he’s sitting in the seat diagonally behind Eddie’s. “Just wanted to be sure I was getting into the right car,” he says, very much lacking an accent. 

“I’m the only running car on the block.” Eddie watches Richie’s reflection in the mirror as he straps his seatbelt, then wiggles down in his seat, crossing his arms over his middle. He scratches his nose. 

“That’s fooled me before, Travis Bickle, hasn’t anyone ever told you not to get into cars with strangers?”

“I was literally _hired_ to give you a ride, you should have been expecting me.”

“That’s what your mom said last night,” he leans forward as he says it, placing a spindly, pale hand on the back of Eddie’s seat. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Eddie says. He glares at him in the rearview mirror for as long as he can stand to keep his eyes off the road. Richie laughs, settling back into his seat, and promptly falls asleep.

So much for Richie not being a dick. 

Eddie can’t stop looking at him. Every red light he checks the rearview mirror, trying to place where he’s seen him before. He can’t think of any movies he may have seen him, though he’s sure that must be it. Why else would he recognize some C-list celebrity?

Even in his sleeping state, he looks worn out, tired. Maybe it’s good he’s getting an extra hour or so in.

The traffic isn’t bad this early in the morning, and continues to thin out the further they get from Manhattan. It doesn’t take long for the sky scraping buildings to be replaced with small houses and stores. 

The sky’s just starting to lighten when he pulls into a huge parking lot. He parks in front of a huge warehouse, and turns off the car. 

“Hey.” he says, and turns around in his seat. “Hey, Tozier. We’re here.”

Richie’s eyes shoot open, and he glances sleepily at the building and the lot. 

“Cool,” he yawns, unbuckles his seat, and is gone from Eddie’s line of vision. Eddie shakes his head, taking his hand off the parking brake when Richie’s knocking on the passenger window. Eddie rolls it down.

“Hey, sorry, what was your name?” Richie asks, hands resting on the open window frame.

“Edward Kaspbrak.” he says, and immediately wants to shoot himself in the foot. 

“Thanks for the ride Eds, I’ll see you later today!” And then he’s gone from the window, Eddie watching him as he shuffles towards the studio.

Eddie puts the key back in the ignition, then pulls it out again. He slumps back in his seat. It's a long drive back to Manhattan. He tries to plan his route, where he can get something healthy to eat on the way, what he’ll do with his extra few hours when he gets home. Maybe he’ll clean the kitchen.

Or, he could go visit the set. What's the point in driving back to Manhattan at this hour, the streets will be insane. Once he's back, he’ll have to turn right back around to take Richie home. 

That wouldn’t make any sense. Logistically, the best thing to do is just stay close by. 

Right?

Before he can think about it too much, he climbs out of his car and locks the door behind him, cringing and shaking his head as he walks towards the building. 

It doesn’t look that special from the outside, just a giant, gray, oppressive warehouse. Once he’s inside though, a whole new world breaks open. He glances into one of the studios, massive, again, reminding him he’s just in a warehouse, ceilings impossibly high, lights impossibly bright.

Eddie meanders down the long hallways, and finds a small kitchen. He introduces himself to a very nice PA who’s pouring herself a cup of coffee, and after telling her what his job is, she tells him to help himself to breakfast foods and drinks. 

With a granola bar and a shitty cup of coffee, Eddie keeps wandering around the warehouse, each room made into an entirely different place. It’s fascinating. 

He spends the whole day watching these worlds unfold in front of him. He bumps into the PA again, Abby, and she takes him around the set, telling him about the different studios and the jobs that make a movie. Eddie listens intently, any inclination to head home slowly dissipating. 

It leaves him entirely when Abby leads him to a darkened room and stands against the back wall. An array of fabric chairs sit positioned in front of big monitors where Eddie can see Richie standing in a hallway with a blonde woman. 

“They’re in the other room,” Abby tells him. “The hallway is just so narrow that they have to direct from in here, using the monitors.” 

Richie is amicably chatting to the woman, he seems much more awake and lively now than he did in the car this morning. He says something, and the woman shoves his shoulder. She rolls her eyes, which seems to encourage Richie, and he says something else with a smirk. She scoffs at him, and looks annoyed. 

Eddie wishes he could hear what they’re saying. 

He hangs out for the rest of the day, watching construction workers as they build a set that looks like it's going to be an elaborate garden, trees and a pond with flowing water and all. He chats with Abby and some of the other PA’s at lunch. He argues with the set medic about the array of equipment he _should_ have and _doesn’t._

He keeps an eye out for Richie, but Eddie’s wandering and Richie’s schedule don’t seem to cross much. 

About half an hour before Richie’s scheduled to wrap for the day, Eddie goes out and waits in his car. It’s already dark and well past when he usually eats dinner. It’s going to be another two hours to get back to Manhattan, then he’ll have to get up to do it all again tomorrow.

But, he enjoyed his day, he decides. Maybe he’ll keep going back to set, maybe he’ll be able to see Richie working soon, if he does. 

The backdoor opens, and Richie slides in. He looks even more tired now than he did this morning, under eyes dark, little color in his cheeks. Eddie starts the car, and pulls out of the lot. 

Over the next week, this becomes Eddie’s routine: wake up early, get the car, pick up Richie, wander around the set and watch what he can, drive Richie back to his hotel, then his car to the garage, then he walks the few blocks home. 

It doesn’t take long for Richie to start getting on his nerves (which he tells Richie as soon as he realizes). He’s been more awake in the mornings, singing along to the radio, or mocking the DJs. Eddie learns about his time as a radio DJ in college, and that he has stand up comedy bits written and ready to go for whenever Eddie gives him an opportunity. 

It also doesn't take long for Eddie to decide he really likes Richie’s company (which he does not tell him). 

So far, this has been the extent of their interactions, their car rides. Eddie figures out the workings of the set pretty quickly, and finds himself watching the filming from the back wall of whatever room they’re in, out of the way of the crew and way, _way_ behind the directors and producers. No one seems to mind him hanging around - with the exception of the set medic, who Eddie still thinks needs to up his game - and he’d like to keep it that way. 

Richie catches his eye from across the room every once in a while. He’ll smile at him from whatever he’s doing, and give him an exaggerated wink. Eddie just shakes his head, and tries to feign interest in the bustle of the crew instead. 

They haven’t had an opportunity to speak to each other outside of Eddie’s car, until about a week and a half into shooting. Eddie’s leaning against the back wall of one of the studios in the warehouse. In the middle of a stark, bland, concrete box is a living room, bathed in soft, warm light, decorated to perfect normalcy. 

It’s nicer than Eddie’s place. Somehow, it feels more lived in. 

He stares at the stacks of books that were placed intentionally haphazardly, the scattered empty glasses and the photographs. So many photographs dotting the walls and the shelves. 

Richie’s in a few. They must have had him send them in earlier - he looks younger in a lot of them. Less tired. 

“Hey, if it isn’t my chivalrous chauffeur,” Eddie spins, and there he is, all six feet of him, apparently. Having only ever seen Richie sitting in his back seat, or from pretty far away, he was not expecting Richie to tower over him like this. He feels heat prick at his cheeks. 

_What the fuck?_

“Good to see you in the daylight, and up close!” Richie says, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, grinning. “You’re so tiny out from behind the wheel.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you.”

Which is… fucking hilarious, because Richie really is a giant. He could probably comfortably set his elbow on Eddie’s shoulder, or reach his arm around Eddie’s back, hand easily resting on his hip. They’d fit nicely together. 

He panicked, said the first come back he could think of. Richie must know it too, because he quirks an eyebrow down at Eddie. And it’s… it’s oddly charming. 

Eddie’s face really flushes now. A lopsided grin splits across Richie’s face and he laughs, then reaches a huge hand out and pinches Eddie’s cheek, and says “you are so _cute, cute, cute_.”

Eddie considers combusting on the spot. Instead, he mumbles, “shut the fuck up.”

Richie laughs again, and turns so he’s standing next to Eddie instead, taking in the set with him. 

“How’s it going?” Eddie asks.

“Oh, it’s a total shitshow.” Richie crosses his arms across his chest. “Star’s a total diva, the budget is abysmal, and the script literally stinks. I think we all kinda knew that going in.”

“Why’re you doing it then?” Eddie asks. 

Richie just shrugs. “Pays well. Gets my name out there.”

“But it’s not what you want to be doing?”

“We all gotta start somewhere, Spaghetti Head.” 

He’s joking, his smiles stretched and his tone is light. But it… it upsets Eddie a little.

Before he can say, Richie’s being called to the middle of the living room. Eddie watches him closely, the way he performs, the easy way he delivers lines. He’s good at this. 

Eddie has no doubt he’ll go far beyond these shitty comedy movies. 

\--

“Hey, Kaspbrak,” someone shouts, breaking Eddie out of his realization that the shoot is already half over. He spins, recognizing the voice before he can find the face. It belongs to one of the producer’s of the show, Cal, a big gruff man stuffed into a tailored suit. He had been the one to interview Eddie. Eddie liked him a lot, he was calm and reasonable and hired him almost immediately. 

But now, stalking towards Eddie with a scrunched, flustered face, he looks so far from calm that Eddie feels a bubble of panic form in his throat. 

“Hey, Cal, everything okay?” he asks.

“Not even fucking close, Kaspbrak. I’m running a fucking circus here. One of the dumbass PA’s picked up juniper trees for the garden set.” 

“Okay?” Eddie doesn’t see what the problem is, other than the fact that junipers are fucking gross.

“So Alice is allergic,” he says, looking close to exploding.

Alice, _Alice_. Eddie tries to place her. There are a lot of people on this set, and really he only pays attention to one. 

“I need you to return them,” Cal says.

Eddie gapes at him. “That’s not really my job -”

“Your job is to drive, drive these back to the craft store in Queens. If Alice sees them she’ll flip her shit again and I _do not_ have time. Get it done.”

“Cal -”

“Don’t tell them you’re returning them from a film set, they won’t take them back, believe me, I’ve tried.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to say?”

“Figure it out!” he says in a huff, and then he’s gone, racing to whichever problem he has to deal with next.

“Fuck,” Eddie grits, sighs, then starts heading for the loading dock. It’s not like he has much of a choice. 

The plants are lined up in neat rows on the edge. There has to be at least thirty of them, small and ugly green with blue berries sticking out of brassy, cheap pots, the tallest only about two feet high. Eddie takes them in, trying to figure out if they'll all fit in the back of his car, when he feels someone at his side.

“What are you up to, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie bumps his hip against Eddie’s, sending a tingle up his spine. 

“One of the producers told me to return all these fucking plants.”

“Oh yeah… Isn’t Alice allergic to them?”

“Did everyone know this except the Producers?” Eddie practically yells. “Who’s in charge here, this is fucking ridiculus.”

“I told you, Eds, it's a shitshow.”

“ _I’m allergic_ too, but no one asked me! He didn’t even give me a fucking choice!”

“That’s show biz, baby,” Richie knocks his shoulder against Eddie’s. “Hey, are you gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie grumbles. “I take allergy medicine. Like a reasonable adult, so stuff like this won’t fucking happen.” He grits his teeth. He’s not getting paid enough for this. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be filming right now?”

Richie shakes his head. “The shitshow gets the better of both of us today, Eds. There was some mistake with scheduling or something, I don’t even fucking know, so I’m just gonna be waiting around for the next four to five hours.”

Eddie glares at nothing in particular. The fucking audacity, all these people just wasting everyones time. 

“That sucks, Rich.” He looks up at him, and finds his eyes already on him. He stammers, “well, I’ll be back in awhile. I’m sure I’ll get back by the time you’re done. See you then?”

Richie smiles at him gently. “See you soon, Spaghetti head,” and he starts to head inside. Eddie turns to get his car.

“Wait, Eddie, can I come?” 

Eddie spins around to look at him. “To the craft store?”

“No, on your quest to outer fucking space. Yes to the store!”

“You want to come?”

“Hell yeah, Eds! Lets get the fuck out of here!”

Eddie looks at him, his big goofy grin and his shining eyes. “Okay. Let me pull the car around, then we can start loading these up.”

The plants fit in the car. Barely. He and Richie have to throw their body weight against the trunk door to close it, Richie giving it a few extra shoves for good measure, grinning at Eddie all the while. The third row has plants on the floor and taking up every seat, the tin of the pots scratching against each other and sprinkling the floor with rusty paint chips. There’s enough room in the second row that the pots don’t have to touch as much, leaving floor and seats with less paint and juniper berries. That shit can stay as far away from Eddie as possible, he does not want to breathe that in until he can get his car cleaned. He silently thanks God for three row seating.

With his usual spot occupied by about three potted plants, Richie settles into the passenger seat. They've barely pulled out of the parking lot before he starts fiddling with the radio. 

Eddie tries to keep his eyes on the road, he really does. But Richie keeps biting his lip as he considers the song playing before shaking his head and skipping to the next station. It’s distracting.

“Will you just pick something,” Eddie snaps. “You’re distracting me.”

Richie looks at him, fingers still hovering over the buttons. “I get that a lot,” he flirts, adjusts the volume a bit, then settles back in his seat. 

“Not you, the music,” Eddie lies. Richie just smiles at him.

Luckily, the parking lot outside the store is mostly empty. They pull up close to the entrance and Richie goes to find a cart while Eddie unlocks the trunk. What the fuck is his life, how the hell did he get _here,_ a big box craft store on the outskirts of Queens with Richie fucking Tozier and a car full of tiny juniper trees?

Shaking his head with a huffed laugh, he hears a scraping on the pavement behind him and turns to see Richie with one foot on the cart, the other pushing hard against the ground. He hops off too close to Eddie for comfort, and bows, gesturing dramatically to the shopping cart.

Eddie laughs, shaking his head more aggressively. He’s been doing that a lot lately. 

“We’re going to have to get another cart,” Eddie says after about five plants take up half the basket. “Or maybe two.”

Richie takes one of the plants out of the trunk, and holds it up to Eddie’s face. “ _Rosebud,_ ” he whispers in a somewhat accurate impression of Charles Foster Kane, then places the plant in the cart.

“Oh my God,” Eddie rolls his eyes.

Richie grabs the next plant closest to him, holds it out to Eddie again, and this time bends one of the branches with his index finger. “That’s some bad hat, Harry,” he makes the plant say.

“You’re insufferable,” Eddie bends to place his plant on the platform underneath the cart. When he comes back to standing, Richie’s grinning at him, holding out a plant for him to take. Eddie grabs it, ready to put it next to the other under the cart, when Richie yells, “get your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape!”

Eddie laughs. “You’re gonna get us kicked out before we even get inside, dipshit.” Richie just grins at him. 

Eddie was right, they do need another cart. With every plant Richie takes from the car, he says a line from a movie in the character’s voice, then places it in the cart. Some of the impressions are pretty good. Most of them are not. 

Eddie really doesn’t mind. He watches over the tops of the junipers as Richie contorts his face, scrunching or twisting his jaw to get into character. 

He’s listening, he’s taking in everything Richie’s saying, but he’s also a little distracted by the feeling in his chest. It’s like there’s a balloon inflating in his rib cage, his chest expanding, and Eddie’s worried if Richie grins at him like that one more time, he might float away. 

He’s having fun. Holy shit, the best day of his life may be because a dumbass PA on a shitty comedy movie forgot one of the actresses had allergies. 

“Hey, Eds.” Eddie spins to look at Richie, now just a few feet behind him. He’s gripping the end of a truly disgusting role of fabric. It’s an ugly green-yellow color with neon pink flowers in varying shapes spotted across it, creating maybe the gaudiest thing Eddie’s ever seen. The roll on the wall spins as Richie pulls on the fabric, draping it across his chest. “Will you go to prom with me?” Richie asks.

“Not like that,” Eddie laughs. “But I’ll reconsider if we can get out of here without these.”

They round the corner and make their ways to the info desk, and Eddie’s good feeling steadily dissipates as panic sets in. What the fuck is he supposed to say? He’s just gonna have to make something up on the spot. Convince them to take all the plants back. 

They approach the desk, a young girl in a red employee’s vest looks up from her book and settles her gaze on their shopping carts. She looks how Eddie feels, wide eyed and apprehensive for the conversation ahead of them. 

“Can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes.” Eddie says. “I would like to return these.” Richie gives little jazz hands, presenting the cart to her. 

“Do you have a receipt?”

Shit. How did Eddie not think about that?

“No?” 

The girl does not look impressed. “I can’t help you, sorry.” she says, and pulls her book up in front of her face. 

Eddie turns to look at Richie and gives him a look that he hopes says _what now?_ but it is probably closer to _help me._ Richie’s eyes glint dangerously, and his grin quirks. Eddie feels his blood run cold. 

This can’t be good. 

Richie moves his cart to the side and approaches the desk. “Excuse me,” he says, squinting at her name tag, “Leah. Listen, we really need to return these.”

“Can you give me a good reason?” She asks over the top of her book. 

“Well my friend here,” Richie all but smirks, leaning across the counter as he whispers, “he says that the plants are talking to him.”

Eddie scoffs. “Oh my God.”

“He’s a little sensitive about it.”

The girl - Leah - stares at them. She blinks. “Why do you think I’d want to take them, then?”

“We just need them gone as soon as possible, it’s really starting to bother him.” Richie says, voice almost going into some weird Godfather impression. It’s not obvious, Leah surely won’t notice, but Eddie can hear the slight lilt, the way he’s speaking out of one side of his mouth more than the other.

Leah blinks at them again, then her eyes slide to the carts next to them. She takes a second. “You want me to take all 27?”

“Yes?”

“Without a receipt?”

“Uh huh.”

“Because they’re bothering your friend?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Fine.”

Well. Eddie can’t believe it worked. And apparently, neither can Richie by the look on his face, which he quickly rearranges before Leah notices.

“Thank you,” he winks, and leaves a $20 in her book as she and Eddie start to unload the carts. Richie does not do any voices this time. 

They’re pushing the now empty carts back to their spot by the front doors when Richie’s phone rings. He takes the call as they walk back to the car.

Apparently, someone _majorly fucked up_ , like even more than they had thought when they left a few hours ago, and the AD informs Richie that he isn’t needed on set, and gets the rest of the day off. 

“Should I just drive you back to the hotel then?” Eddie asks, arms crossed, leaning awkwardly against the hood of his car. Richie snaps the phone shut aggressively, but doesn’t look too peeved otherwise. He shrugs, slipping the phone into his back pocket, then mirrors Eddie’s position. 

“I guess so, boss,” he says.

And then, like a wonderful, horrible jolt, a moment of pure impulse, something that rarely bodes well for him, Eddie says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Or, we could get something to eat?”

Richie meets his eyes, searching and smiling. He taps his nose with one hand and points at Eddie with the other. “I like the way you think, spaghetti man. Shall we?”

Eddie laughs gently, pulling his keys out of his pocket, keeping his head down and hopefully out of Richie’s view. He unlocks his door and drops into his seat, turning to the passenger seat that’s… empty?

He turns around and sees Richie where he usually sits, oh so far away in the back, buckling his seatbelt.

“What are you doing?”

“Strapping in, Eds, what does it look like?”

“Get in the front seat, asshole, I’m not your chauffeur.”

Richie all but cackles. “I think that’s exactly what you are, Eddie my love.”

Eddie turns to the windshield and sinks a bit in his seat. He grumbles mostly to the wheel, “you’re not working right now dickhead. I’m off duty.”

“Fair enough,” he hears and then two doors open and shut, and Richie’s next to him again, elbow on his arm rest, already fiddling with the radio. 

They decide to park the car in its garage space and walk around to find a place to eat. The sky’s just starting to darken by the time they’ve taken to the streets. 

They have this part of town in common; both spent parts of their earlier twenties here. Just at different times. 

Walking through Washington Square, Eddie points at the fountain and tells Richie about the club meetings he had there in college. Richie tells him that’s where he fucked Eddie’s mom. 

Richie guides him to a pizza place nested under a chunk of apartments. 

“Here?” He asks. “Classic, cheesy, very New York.”

Eddie gives it a look over and wrinkles his nose at the big blaring B in the window. 

“Absolutely not,” he deadpans. 

Richie shakes his head, running his tongue over his top teeth in exasperation. “Why not?”

Eddie points to the B, the object of his woes, his nightmare fuel. “Do you need a new prescription, four eyes? You see this sanitary rating? No way I’m eating here.”

“B’s are above average, my friend, it’s fine.”

“I cannot even begin to tell you how wrong you are. If you die because of bad pizza, I’ll get fucking blamed for it.”

“Hard to please,” Richie laughs.

Eddie notices how warm his cheeks feel. “It’s not even that hard to get an A, most of them are fucking disgusting too. We are _not_ eating here.”

“Come on Eds, I thought getting little mice feet and hantavirus in your pizza was part of the New York experience?”

Eddie almost gags. He glares at Richie. “That is so not funny.”

And it’s like Richie blank screens. He stares at Eddie, mouth slightly slack, eyes flashing, before he shakes his head and laughs, pushing the curls on his forehead back.

“What?” Eddie asks, conscious of how defensive he sounds - that was fucking weird.

“Nothing.” Richie says, but he’s really smiling now. Eddie wonders if anyone’s ever dislocated a jaw from smiling too big, and if he should be concerned for Richie’s jaw, and how that’s something he wouldn’t mind kissing better and - Eddie stops himself. Richie’s eyes get softer, almost fond, when he says, “I just feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Well. Eddie doesn't know what he’s supposed to do with that. 

“Let’s keep going.” he says to his feet. 

After a few more blocks, they walk up to one of the most middle America looking diners Eddie’s ever seen outside of middle America. It’s all neon lights and pin ups, the menu posted in the window announcing burgers and breakfast food, milkshakes and fries.

Richie looks over the fucking moon.

“How about this place, Eds?”

Eddie shrugs, and meets Richie’s eyes, shining down at him. It has an A. 

They get their food - a double decker burger with every sauce listed in tiny letters at the bottom of the menu for Richie, and a spinach omelet with toast for Eddie - to go, and head back to Eddie’s apartment.

Eddie unlocks his door, and opens it with his shoulder. Richie’s close behind him, and Eddie takes a deep breath. The reality of his current situation starts to nip at the back of his brain. It’s not that he’s nervous for Richie to see his apartment, but more to see how Richie fits in it. He’s so different, so much brighter, than anything in Eddie’s life. He’s a blazing star in the night sky, and Eddie really doesn’t want the sun to come up.

“It’s not much,” he says, leading him into the small apartment. Eddie shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the hook. He tries not to watch as Richie does the same, not that Richie would notice. His big, bright eyes are wandering around the small space, blinking at the freshly scrubbed kitchen, at the tiny TV, the couch and the coffee table. Richie plops the bags of food on the coffee table, then sits on the floor in front of it. Eddie grabs silverware and nestles on the couch across from him. 

They do what they do best: they talk, and talk, and talk. The moon gleams outside the window, the hours pass in seconds. Before Eddie knows it, they have to be up in seven hours to be back on set. 

“Alright, I should probably head back to the hotel,” Richie yawns. “Gotta be up bright and early, huh spaghetti?” 

If this was a romantic movie, or really, if luck just happened to be on Eddie’s side, the cold weather would have turned inhumanely frigid, snow would be smacking the windows and the roads would be too slippery to walk on. And Richie would stay.

But this isn’t a movie, and Eddie’s never been lucky. But sometimes, _sometimes,_ he finds himself impulsive and forward. 

“Richie, its fucking freezing outside. And, man, in the dark like this, someone might think you’re Bigfoot and shoot you.”

Richie gapes at him, looking like he’s about to say something, before clamping his mouth shut. He waits. Eddie’s not used to his silence, it freaks him out a bit. 

“You can stay here,” he says, before the pause gets too pregnant. 

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks, Eds.” He gestures vaguely at the couch Eddie’s sitting on. “So, you got any blankets or anything?”

Eddie blinks at him. Then frowns down at the couch. 

He had kinda just assumed Richie would sleep in his bed with him; like there was something in the back of his mind that told him, _yeah, that’s what you and Richie do, no biggie._ Which doesn’t make _any_ sense.

But now it’s in his head, and Eddie can’t imagine Richie sleeping out here, alone, while he could be so close. But he can’t say that…. Can he?

Eddie did not think this through. This is a total disaster. 

“Don’t be stupid.” Eddie scoffs. “That thing will break your neck if you sleep on it, Frankenteen. You can sleep with me.”

Richie sucks in his bottom lip then presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, the way Eddie’s learned he does before he’s about to say something disgustingly inappropriate, and Eddie feels his stomach drop out of his ass.

“Sleep with me in my bed. _Sleep in my bed._ Not with me. Just… next to me. In my bed.” He clarifies, words rushing together in about two seconds flat. “I’m gonna change.”

He rushes to his room and shucks off his suit, throwing everything into his laundry pile. He pulls on navy flannel pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt. He looks briefly around his room, making sure there isn’t a mess anywhere, half expecting to see some kind of toxic spill or something oozing from the ceiling, but everything looks in order. His hand is on the door handle before he realizes Richie will need something to wear too.

This may be a problem, Richie is quite a bit taller than Eddie is. He huffs a breath and digs through his drawers, pulling out his roomiest black sweats and a RENT T-shirt he got in college and hasn’t worn since. He folds them carefully and places them on the end of the bed. 

Eddie can feel the heat in his cheeks, and under normal circumstances, he would be 100% flustered, maybe a little panicked. But in all honesty, he can’t stop smiling. Everything with Richie feels big and scary and easy and natural at the same time. And he’s only like 60% flustered.

Not that he’s gonna let Richie know that. 

“I left some things you can change into on my bed. I’m gonna brush my teeth.” 

He races to the bathroom, washes his face and brushes his teeth as quickly as he can bear to, then heads back to his room, pink faced, his hairline a little damp.

Richie’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom, ankles poking out from the bottom of his pant legs, shirt drooping off his shoulder, exposing a bit of his collarbone. 

Eddie stares. Richie stares back. 

“Which side do you want?” Richie asks.

Eddie blinks, pulling his gaze from Richie’s chest to his face. “Huh?”

“Which is your side?” He asks again, gesturing at the bed. 

“Oh. Uh-” He’d never really thought about it before. “The one away from the wall.”

Richie nods, then smirks. There isn’t much room between the bed and where he’s standing, but he takes it in two gigantic steps and launches himself on to it. 

“You’re gonna break it, asshole,” Eddie says, taking much smaller, timider steps forward, then pulling the blankets back and climbing in.

“Isn’t that the goal, spaghetti head?” Richie asks in a drawl, waggling his eyebrows at him.

Eddie shoves him. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Thought you were gonna do that for me?”

“I changed my mind, you can go sleep on the death couch, fuck you dude, get out of my room.” Eddie says, surprising himself a little with his light tone. If it was anyone else, he would mean it. 

“Okay, okay sorry,” Richie holds up his hands in surrender. 

“You should be,” Eddie says, biting, but still smiling. He reaches for the light switch and the room is bathed in darkness. New York City outside the window starts to come into focus, towering buildings with little squares of light. 

Eddie’s careful to keep his distance. He turns so he’s lying on his side, back to the man in his bed. He pulls himself so near the edge that if he rolled even just a tiny bit, he’d be on the floor. 

“Is the couch really that bad?” Richie asks. 

“Yeah, it's the most uncomfortable thing in the world.”

It’s not. Eddie’s fallen asleep on it dozens of times, usually accompanied by a glass of wine and a shitty movie.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Fuck you if you think I’d let you sleep on it.”

Richie laughs. They listen to the city noises in the darkness. Eddie’s not tired; he feels more awake than he has in years. He wants to keep talking to Richie, he wants to hear more of his dumb jokes, but their current situation makes Eddie hesitant to prod. Richie’s in his bed. He doesn’t know what the protocol is, when he can feel Richie just behind him, so close and so untouchable. 

So he’s just gonna lie there. Hopefully sleep will find him at some point before they have to be up in six hours.

“Hey Eddie?” Richie asks, voice quiet, maybe checking if Eddie’s even awake. 

“Yeah?”

“I… Thank you. Today was really fun.”

Eddie smiles into his pillow, as if that will muffle the way it's shattering across his face. If this was a romantic movie, Eddie would roll over and face him, blink at his silhouette in the dark until his eyes were too heavy to look any longer. Maybe he’d have his head on Richie’s chest, maybe Richie would hold him. 

Alas, he stays where he is, feeling Richie’s body heat radiating on his back, a whole world away. 

“Goodnight, Richie.” he says to the door across the room.

\--

Eddie’s alarm clock rips him awake. He blinks and groans, rubbing the heel of his hand under his eye, then letting it fall next to him onto… onto Richie’s chest. 

Oh fuck. 

In a sleepy haze, Eddie takes in his current position, curled into Richie, their legs overlapping and tangled together. Richie’s arm is resting carefully over Eddie’s waist, their faces are inches apart.

Eddie just blinks, trying to remember when this happened. He must have rolled over in his sleep, and Richie must have pulled him close.

“Morning.” Richie says, voice gravelly and low with sleep. An eclectic shock runs through Eddie’s spine. Richie slowly opens his eyes, then quickly pulls his arm away from Eddie, scooching back until there's a few inches of space between them. They stare at each other. 

“You wanna turn the alarm off?” Richie asks.

“Right, yeah.” Eddie jerks himself to sitting and smacks the alarm clock then turns on the light. “I’m gonna make coffee,” he announces. “Uh, bathrooms all yours.”

Eddie goes about his morning routine with Richie over his shoulder. The walk to the garage and the drive is mostly quiet. Richie sits in the passenger seat. 

It’s not awkward per say, but Eddie’s not really used to the quiet. Richie sings quietly to the music on the radio, looking out the window as they cross the bridge. The morning sun backlights him ever so slightly, bathing him in a soft glow. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, because he can’t stand it any longer.

“For what?” Richie looks at him, soft and searching. 

“For this morning. Sorry if it was weird.”

“Oh! It’s okay!”

“Okay, well sorry.” This sucks. 

“Dude, it’s really okay.” He hesitates for just a second, then says, “honestly, I think that’s the best I’ve slept in years.”

Eddie smiles at the steering wheel. “Me too.” 

\--

It would be like trying to find a singular moment the autumn leaves turned yellow, figuring out when Richie and Eddie adopted their new routine. Richie’s nights in the hotel became less and less frequent, and after each his bag was stuffed with more clothes to avoid it longer. Eddie buys him a toothbrush from the CVS down the block.

Eddie likes it. He likes waking up warm next to another person, he likes that the coffee is already brewing by the time he’s done brushing his teeth (though it’s stronger these days, he doesn’t think Richie actually measures it, just kinda dumps it in). But mostly, he likes that it’s Richie. 

He likes Richie singing along to the music in the apartment, he likes listening to Richie’s comedy routine ideas or complaining about the movie while they make dinner. He likes that they’re getting closer, he likes how easy it is. 

Richie has a whole new level of energy, both in the car and on set. He’s captivating to watch, stealing every scene he’s in, lighting up the stage, his brightness radiating from the monitors Eddie watches from a distance. 

Eddie thinks he knows what it must feel like, he thinks he feels the same, a newness bubbling under his skin. He’s calmer and more electric, all at once. Like a grounded volt of electricity, he feels present and assured, radiant and fucking _happy._

Their nights start closer together now, another thing they slowly eased into. Instead of starting with a cavern between them and waking up with their limbs tangled together, they cut out the middle man. Maybe not consciously, or maybe so without discussion, Eddie started tucking himself into Richie’s side right after he switched off the lights. 

Eddie’s easing into this new routine, and just like that everything changes. 

It happens when with only a few days left of filming, a topic the two have basically refused to talk about - the after. The _we’re not obligated to see each other every day anymore, so are we still going to?_

They haven’t talked about what comes next, or really, what’s going on right now. It’s an itch, an ever present nuisance; they should sit down and talk about it soon. But right now, they’re making dinner. 

Eddie’s grabbing some tomato sauce from his refrigerator while Richie stands at the counter behind him, slicing zucchinis, when a new song blings on the radio. 

Richie recognizes it immediately, the instruments barely twinkle and the drums kick twice, and Richie starts jumping up and down head banging, twirling around the kitchen, holding the knife in front of his face like a microphone.

“PUT the knife down RICHARD, no dancing with sharp objects, asshole!” Eddie yells, trying to avoid being bulldozed by a dancing Richie. 

He puts the knife down, singing “bum bum bum” along with lead guitar. Eddie knows he knows this song, but apparently doesn’t have an ear for music like Richie does. He’s completely lost without the words. 

Richie stands a few feet away from him, making direct, intense eye contact and sings at Eddie “ _whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again._ ” 

Ah. The Cure. Of course. 

Richie sings the opening verse and chorus dramatically to Eddie, bopping his shoulders along to the accents the guitar is playing.

“Hey Eddie,” he says while step touching and snapping in a very jerky - but still somehow on rhythm - way, “remember when we were in the craft store and I asked if you’d go to prom with me?”

“How could I forget?” He says sarcastically, as if that weren’t true. He doesn’t think he could ever forget that day, as long as he lives. 

“Can I rephrase my question? Would you dance with me?” And he’s suddenly still, holding his hands out, palms up, in front of him, _Lovesong_ plunking away on the radio. 

_However far away_

_I will always love you_

_However long I stay_

_I will always love you_

Eddie takes him in, his nervous, lopsided smile, his hands twitching slightly as he waits. Eddie sets the tomato sauce down on the counter, wipes his hands on the dish rag hanging from the oven door, and places his hands on Richie’s. 

Richie grips Eddie’s hands and pulls him close to his chest, then steps back and pulls their clasped hands out to the sides. They do this in and out thing, taking their hands from the sides to their chests, and Eddie throws his head back and laughs. Richie spins him under his arm, then pulls him closer to his chest again, sliding one hand out of Eddie’s grip and loops it around his lower back. Eddie places his hand on Richie’s shoulder, and they side gallup around the kitchen, spinning in circles, their clasped hands held out like tango dancers. 

_Whenever I’m alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am free again_

_Whenever I’m alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am clean again_

Eddie slides his hand up Richie’s arm, then settles both of his forearms around Richie’s neck. Richie arms loop around Eddie’s back, pulling him close. 

The song isn’t slow, but they dance like it is, gently swaying, Eddie’s head tucked into the crease of Richie’s neck. The walls seem to bend around them, leaning in and holding them in this perfect space. 

The song ends, and they stop swaying. 

“Songs over,” Eddie points out, like an idiot. 

“I noticed that,” Richie says. 

“We should probably let go now.”

“Okay.”

Neither of them move. The radio DJ is babbling on about some new horror novel coming out next month. 

“This guy sucks,” Richie says. 

Eddie smiles and finally pulls back a little, and just looks at Richie. His dopey smile, the slight pinkness of his cheeks, and his eyes. Big, blue and roaming, like he’s searching Eddie for something, like he’s asking a question. 

Eddie answers it, moving a hand from the back of Richie’s head and placing it gently on his jaw. He runs his thumb over Richie’s cheekbone, and asks a question of his own, a tiny pulse through his fingers, minisculely nudging Richie closer.

Richie responds, leaning closer, until they’re breathing the same air, and lets Eddie close the gap between them.

The kiss is soft, a quick, fluid moment before Eddie pulls back, just to be sure that was what Richie was saying. He takes one look at the smile on Richie’s face, his lips still slightly puckered, and pulls him in again. They smile against each other’s lips.

They’ll talk about the after, maybe even what comes after the after. But like with so many things with Richie, he knows deep in his bones that this isn’t the end of their story. Eddie feels it in Richie’s smile, in his hands on his back, in the electricity. 

Their story starts now. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> come bug me on tumblr if ya want @waterflowrr


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